


Three Safehouses

by firstnameagent



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Gen, Injury, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstnameagent/pseuds/firstnameagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fake AH Crew is a well-oiled machine. But every machine breaks down sometimes.</p><p>A short little glimpse into the aftermath of a not so successful heist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Safehouses

Ray hates driving in good conditions: convertible top down, sun out, roads clear. So with half the Los Santos police force tracking him and his friend bleeding to death in the passenger seat—well, it doesn’t rate amongst his top 10 experiences in life.

“You still with me, Ry?” he half-shouts, taking a hard turn that sends the tires screeching. He checks the rearview mirror and finds it clear, but that doesn’t mean anything yet, not until they get out of the city. 

Ryan’s slumped over, one hand still pressed up to where Ray told him to press, but there’s bright red leaking through his shirt and down to the top of his jeans anyway. Ray can’t see his face through all that fucking face paint, but he’d bet money it’s ashy and pale.

“Cops shot me,” Ryan replies, sounding more like an indignant preschooler than a man with a hole in his abdomen. 

“Yeah, bud, I was there,” Ray assures him. They blow through a red light and Ray flips a middle finger up at the two assholes who reply with their horns. “We’re on the move, alright? You just gotta hang on.”

“Very rude of them,” Ryan mumbles, and before Ray has time to ask whether he means the cops or the drivers he looks over and sees Ryan’s eyes sliding slowly closed.

He reaches over and snaps his fingers inches in front of Ryan’s face, one hand still on the wheel. “Hey! Eyes open! C’mon, wakey wakey!”

“’M awake.” Ryan’s head lolls to the side. “Heard you. Moving. Got it.”

“You’d fucking better be,” Ray says, gripping the wheel tight. “Fucking stay awake, alright? People shit when they die. You can’t shit in my car.”

“’M fine,” Ryan breathes, and Ray pushes the gas a little harder.

-

_“Take Ryan, I’ve got Geoff,” Jack had shouted, practically shoving Geoff into the passenger seat, and then, “I’ll send medical to you first. Get to the red safe house, call us when you get there, you got it?” And Ray had nodded as Michael had helped him dump Ryan into the second car, had gotten in and slammed the doors, and by the time Michael had managed to corral Gavin into the third Ray was already gone._

-

“Micool—”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m dying, Micool.”

“You’re not fucking dying, you’re literally fine. Quit bitching about it and let me drive!”

“Well alright, stop yelling at me!”

Michael slams the brakes, sending Gavin tumbling forward with a gasp as the steering wheel yanks across his chest. “I’m fucking deaf!” he shouts, gesturing to his right ear caked in blood. “I can’t hear a god damn thing in this side and the other one’s not doing much better, so I’m sorry if I’m _fucking yelling_!”

Gavin leans back in his seat, arm held gingerly around his bruised and battered ribcage. He sticks out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

“Don’t have to bloody curse so much,” he mumbles.

“Can’t hear you,” Michael growls, and throws the car back into gear. 

They speed silently down the road for a few moments more, Gavin periodically glancing in the rearview mirror to see if they’re being tailed. Unlikely, considering the split; Ryan and Geoff individually have bounties on their heads higher than Michael and Gavin combined. A miscalculation on the LSPD’s part, if you were to ask any of them. But no one ever really did.

“What if I’ve got serious internal organ damage or something,” Gavin muses, running his fingertips over his ribs. The pain shoots through like lightning wherever he touches, but it’s a little grounding right now, so he doesn’t stop. “I could be bleeding all over my innards right now and you’d never know.”

“If you keel over, I’ll feel totally broken up, I seriously will,” Michael promises at a loud deadpan. “But I’m pretty fucking sure you just got blasted onto your chest and cracked a rib so I’m gonna worry about my blown fucking ear drums, okay?”

Gavin slumps down in his seat. “Selfish bastard,” he whispers. He allows himself a painful giggle when Michael doesn’t hear.

-

_The sirens followed not too far behind, the sounds of the explosion and the smell of smoke still in the air. Jack had allowed herself one breath, two breaths, before getting in her own car, watching the other two vehicles speed away and praying they’d make it out of the city, praying when they all met up it’d still be in one piece, praying for a lot of things she didn’t usually find herself needing to pray for—_

-

“Geoff,” she says evenly, reaching over the console to grab his hand in hers. She keeps her eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, and the speedometer pushing 90. “Geoff, you’ve gotta breathe. Nice and steady.”

“Fucked up,” he gasps, and she squeezes his hand tighter. “We fucked up. Went to hell, all of it, God, God, we—”

“Geoffrey.” This time it’s stern, demanding. “In and out. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

But she can feel his hand shaking in hers and his skin going clammy and if she wanted to bring him back from the brink of a panic attack it’s too late for that now, he’s slipping into it headfirst and all she can do is hold on.

“Ryan,” he says, strained through gritted teeth. “Fuck, Ryan. He was bleeding so much—so much blood, fuck, he’s dying, he’s dead, he’s—”

“He’s not dead,” she insists, even though her voice shakes. “Geoff, they’re going to be okay. You can’t control this one. You’ve gotta breathe.”

“Fucking shit—” and his head is tilted forward, eyes squeezed shut, and he’s trying to breathe like she wants him to but she knows his lungs are too hollow for that so she takes her hand out of his and puts it on his back, runs her fingers up and down his spine slow and steady.

“They’re going to be okay,” she says. “You’re going to be okay.” She keeps babbling reassurances, reminders about the safe houses and their regrouping plans and who they’re going to call first when they get there. Anything she can think of to occupy some piece of his mind.

He stops shaking after six minutes and lets out a huge breath. She does, too; it’s not always so easy with him, not always so short. He rests his arms on his legs and she doesn’t take her hand away from his back until he speaks.

“I need a cold beer,” he mutters.

She takes his hand and presses it to her lips. “We’ll see,” she promises, and they come sliding into the driveway of their safe house.


End file.
